


You’re Just a Sinner I Am Told

by Destinyllama



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Discussion of Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, Mild Sexual Content, Opium, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Jonah Magnus, discussion of gender identity, historical terms for mlms, nonbinary simon fairchild, references to period typical bigotry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destinyllama/pseuds/Destinyllama
Summary: “I’ve met a good number of men like you over my admittedly long life, Jonah. And a number of women in similar predicaments, too,” Giovanni shifts the stem of the opium pipe between his fingers, “I’ve never found them to be unwanted company.”“We’re entertaining, you mean,” Jonah gives a sad little smirk.“Well, yes, and you have… A perspective of scale that others often lack,” Giovanni looks up, thinking, “...I’ve always found society to be… Restrictive. It sorts reality into neat little categories, and when a person falls outside them, it reacts with violence. It’s all so painfully dull, wouldn’t you say?”--Simon Fairchild and Jonah Magnus have a discussion about gender identity in an opium den.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	You’re Just a Sinner I Am Told

**Author's Note:**

> Simon Fairchild is referred to as Giovanni Michele throughout this work as he canonically started using the name Simon Fairchild in the 1920s.  
> Warnings for historical terms for men who love men.
> 
> A huge thanks to Jentaro for betaing for me--they made this so much better. And they are an EXCELLENT writer. ;w;

Drug use is casual with them. There’s a certain freedom that comes from their shared existence, and, in the company of their own kind, the affectation of respectability can be dropped. After all, what is debauchery when one lives so close to the inhuman? What is carnal sin to one who feeds off the horror of others? It is nothing. Sex is nothing, drunkeness is nothing, and neither is casual cruelty. So, Jonah has absolutely no problem sharing a bit of opium with Giovanni Michele. He watches the Vast avatar pack the long, slender pipe and heat it over the portable burner, eyes following the swirling blue cloud curl from Giovanni’s mouth before he passes the pipe to Jonah.

They’re lounging on their sides on chaise lounges huddled around a table; their usual arrangement for this sort of thing. Opium tends to make one sleepy, after all, and so do their surroundings. The room is dark and smoky, the light from their lamp reaching little more than their immediate surroundings. Everything is vague and dreamlike, even before Jonah starts to smoke; they’re sectioned away from others by several thick curtains, so only mumblings of already quiet conversations make it to them. Once in a while, Jonah catches some vague word, a syllable, but is unable to recognize it. The den is the experiential equivalent of seeing a blurry face, just slightly too fuzzy to make out any features. The drugs, of course, make the effect even more pronounced. One puff and Jonah already feels his mind swimming. 

He takes a deep breath, enjoying the way every muscle in his body starts to relax, “Oh, that’s nice… That’s quite nice.”

“ _ Lightweight _ ,” Giovanni smirks.

“Pardon me for not frequenting filthy holes in the wall for subpar narcotics, Giovanni. Some of us actually  _ care _ about our reputations.”

Giovanni is something of a mentor to him, as much as one can have a mentor in a world where everyone is playing their own games. The man is several hundred years his senior, frequently talkative, and charming in an annoying, roguish sort of way. It’s what brings Jonah back into Mr. Michele’s company again and again, besides the banter and shared sexual preferences. As is, undoubtedly, Giovanni’s willingness to teach and Jonah’s limitless willingness to  _ learn _ . He is still new to this, after all, and Jonah understands well that if one doesn’t learn quickly, they are likely to get  _ killed _ . Befriending Giovanni is as much a matter of survival as it is of satiating his curiosity.

“Now, what I’ve wondered, Giovanni, for a terribly long time,” Jonah starts, eyes fluttering from inhaling another lungful of thick smoke, “How an old bastard like you can be so tolerant of a  _ champion--, _ ” he says this with a little flourish, gesturing with the bowl of the pipe towards Giovanni, ”--backgammon player such as myself.”

Giovanni laughs, motioning for Jonah to stop hogging the pipe, and takes his own hit once Jonah relinquishes it, “I think you forget, my good lad, that I  _ invented _ the game.”

“Oh, pardon me, how could I forget,” Jonah snorts, comfortably laying his hands over his chest, “You’ve been carousing around with those Italian queens since time immemorial. You’ve had a pretty boy on your arm since the Gauls sacked Rome.”

“None prettier than you, of course,” Giovanni replies without missing a beat and grins when Jonah whacks him on the arm in response.

“Oh, you are a  _ deplorable _ flirt, Giovanni Michele. Absolutely  _ repulsive _ .”

Still, there’s a sort of quiet seriousness behind Jonah’s banter. He is, as usual, throwing up a blase cover to hide that he means to breach a topic he’s uncomfortable with.

“...I’m not entirely joking, Giovanni,” Jonah rubs his mouth with the back of his hand in contemplation, “I’m aware that my particular…  _ Affliction _ , let’s say, is uncommon, even among men of our sort.”

Giovanni is quiet for a moment but when he speaks, it is in an uncharacteristically blunt, factual tone, “...There are more like you than one might initially think.”

Jonah doesn’t respond to that, simply nodding in a melancholic sort of way. He’s thinking, obviously, and displeased with the answer. His body is comfortable, enveloped by moth-eaten pillows, limp and pliant, but even in this lethargic state his mind can’t rest.

“I’ve met a good number of men like you over my admittedly long life, Jonah. And a number of women in similar predicaments, too,” Giovanni shifts the stem of the opium pipe between his fingers, “I’ve never found them to be unwanted company.”   
“We’re entertaining, you mean,” Jonah gives a sad little smirk.

“Well, yes, and you have… A perspective of scale that others often lack,” Giovanni looks up, thinking, “...I’ve always found society to be… Restrictive. It sorts reality into neat little categories, and when a person falls outside them, it reacts with violence. It’s all so painfully dull, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly. I just couldn’t stand conforming to all that nonsense. The dresses, sitting still, being a silent, perfect little thing…”

Giovanni mulls over that outcome and snorts, a plume of smoke following his amused words, “I can’t imagine you as a quiet housewife. The world would be so much less interesting.”

“An enormous waste of potential, all to appease some antiquated traditions… People of my station live their entire lives unaware of the true nature of reality, believing that their meager existences are all there is. Unaware that their roles were created by men just as insular as they are,” Jonah says bitterly, disgusted by the fate he barely managed to dodge. He motions for the pipe, his hand lacking some of its previous coordination, “...Here, pass that, would you.”

“Yes, yes,” Giovanni urges Jonah to continue, handing it over.

Nevertheless, Jonah is contemplative for a few silent moments while he smokes. His gaze is towards the horizon as he speaks, looking at something that isn’t visible in this dingy little room, “...The Fears exist--these huge miasmas of pure pain and terror, beyond our comprehension, beyond what any single man can hope to understand--and yet, we’re expected to believe that these rules that society follows are anything but irrelevant?”

There’s a twinkle in Giovanni’s eye at that; it’s a shared connection between the two, this secret that they’re both privy to.

"See, that's what I like about you, Jonah,” Giovanni holds the other’s gaze as he takes the pipe and sets it on the table, “Most don't understand that societal notions are… Whimsey. Completely arbitrary. What men and women are defined as won't survive the next decade, to say nothing of the next century or two."

Jonah’s stare lingers as his eyebrows crease, looking for any sign of jest in his mentor’s face, any small betrayal of his true intentions. However, none are present. The statement is completely serious, and that’s… Shocking. Jonah’s eyes dart around the room, hand rubbing his mouth in silent contemplation. He focuses on a fly darting in lazy circles around their lamp as he centers himself. He knows Giovanni is watching his reaction, and he doesn’t want to look into his eyes in this moment of vulnerability.

Finally, Jonah quietly replies, "...The idea that what I wear or who I sleep with has any cosmic significance is laughable at best."

"Exactly.”

Jonah had always assumed that other avatars, for all their courtesy in respecting his gender, didn’t really understand his predicament. Yes, they would call him  _ Mr. Magnus _ , during sex even, but his chronic paranoia often told him that behind close doors they regarded him as more of a curiosity than a  _ real _ man. Yet, Giovanni shatters that notion. He understands that the difference between Jonah and his more traditionally masculine peers is superficial. Jonah can’t express how significant that is, not if he wants to keep his composure. Not if he doesn’t want to cry. So, he settles for quietly straightening his waistcoat, as though that will do anything to keep him calm.

“...You know, it's a shame you fell to the Ceaseless Watcher,” Giovanni starts slowly, “We could have had a marvelous time stirring up mischief together. Oh well, you just don't quite have the temperament for it. You're a bit, too… Ah,  _ theatrical _ ."

That snaps Jonah back to the present. He swings his arm over the side of the lounge in offense, scoffing, " _ I'm _ theatrical. From the man who feeds his god by  _ throwing people off buildings _ \--"

Giovanni stares at him, lips a straight line, blinking slowly.

"...Yes, fine, perhaps I can be a  _ tad _ theatric," Jonah leans back against the arm of his chaise lounge, straightening his legs, “...But what else would a devil like me be, if not fatally dramatic. My mere existence as a man is an affront to His Majesty and God alike; I might as well have fun.”

“That’s an attitude I try to live by--especially when breaking the law,” Giovanni chuckles, “There’s something very freeing about being obscene, in a criminal sense, in a sexual sense, and… In a gender sense.”

“In a  _ gender _ sense,” Jonah repeats, smirking, thinking Giovanni is kidding, “Darling, is there something you’re not telling me about your upbringing?”

“No, no, my childhood was quite masculine. I just mean… It’s not that straightforward.”

“What  _ do _ you mean?” Jonah furrows his brows in confusion, leaning towards his companion, expecting clarification.

“Well, my relationship with gender is actually more complicated than one might initially imagine…” Giovanni picks the pipe back up and packs another bowl, ”From just looking, that is.”   
“ _ Really _ ,” Jonah’s eyes twinkle with interest, “Please, do go on.”

“You see, I’ve lived a  _ very _ long time, Jonah, in a myriad of different places, different bodies, different presentations…” Giovanni pauses, holding the pipe over the lamp. He takes a drag, and clouds roll lazily out of his mouth, “I’m only presenting masculine now because, well, I feel like it. That and the convenience, but that’s another matter entirely. When I get bored of this one, I might try something completely new.”

“You’re… Not a man?” Each word comes slowly out of Jonah’s mouth, as though he were unsure he had heard correctly.

The answer had already been provided, and the knowing twinkle in Giovanni's eye tells Jonah it was the right one. He thinks over what he knows of Giovanni, his eyes sweeping over the figure reclining near him. Images roll through his mind, mostly of their meetings at Smirke's, where Giovanni was frequently animated in conversation, often about the most esoteric subjects. He was always an odd member of the scene, ascot undone where his companions were finely starched, robed in gaudy colors that contrasted with the muted blacks and blues surrounding him. He always looks, even now, especially now, in the dark brown of the opium den, like he belongs in an artist's collective in Paris, painting prostitutes while nearly starving to death. He simply doesn't live within society's acceptable bounds. Jonah nods and decides that, yes, Giovanni isn't a man.

“That’s right," Giovanni smirks, "And I’m certainly not a  _ woman _ . And I’m a little of both, at the same time. Think how much of creation is unknowable, incomprehensible. That's what the Falling Titan is, after all, that which is beyond understanding, beyond  _ categories _ . So, if I don't feel like either a man or a woman, why should I be? Like so much else in the universe, I don’t quite fit into the definitions. It might be better to call my existence something outside the binary of the sexes.”

Jonah reaches to take the pipe from Giovanni and inhales in contemplation, “...Something nonbinary, then?”

“Oh, that’s a fun little word. Why not, let’s call it ‘nonbinary.’”

Jonah worries over that concept, like the bitter taste of opium on his tongue. He has always felt very firmly male--an inclination that made his girlish childhood very difficult--but part of him wonders if that was out of spite rather than a desire to be strictly masculine. If he had been born in a different time, a different place, had a different patron, would he be calling himself a man? Or was he in any way like Giovanni?

_ No _ , he thinks, running his hands over his loosened ascot, his tight-fitting waistcoat, a dull olive in the meager lighting,  _ He is quite happy being a man _ . He feels comfortable in men’s spaces, the library, the gentlemen’s club, surrounded by his fellow academics. He likes being viewed as a man as well, being referred to as  _ Sir  _ and  _ Mr. _ He likes being called  _ handsome _ and  _ dashing _ . And he likes his lovers--save for Giovanni, he supposes--to be men specifically looking to sleep with someone like them. When Jonah is called a  _ queen _ or a  _ molly _ or a  _ margery _ , he feels a rush of euphoria. He looks to the art of the ancient Greeks and sees himself in  _ Zeus  _ and  _ Ganymede _ ,  _ Apollo _ and  _ Hyacinth _ .

“...I have another question. If I may?” Jonah passes the pipe to his companion.

“Of course.”

“Perhaps this is a misunderstanding--categories are limiting, as you’ve said,” He motions with his hand as he petitions, “But I’ve heard you call yourself a Margery before, Giovanni. You sleep with men--”

“True, I have, but I’m not one in the same way you or Barny are Margeries. Language is limited like that,” Giovanni shrugs, “I may sleep with men, but I’m not exclusively attracted to them. I’m simply attracted to whoever I find engaging, regardless of parts or presentation, but, for simplicity’s sake, I call myself what others will understand.”   
“Huh,” Jonah ponders that for a moment, before smirking, “...That’s rather fitting for you. I like that. The manifestation of human insignificance is beyond societal notions of gender.”

“Current interpretations, at least. Society has always been in a constant state of tumult. We can only hope that whatever follows our present era is… Less restrictive.”

“Optimistic as usual,” Jonah finds that amusing, “And it’s something I can smoke to. God knows I’m tired of having to explain myself. It’s not a  _ sin _ that I’m a particularly feminine man, and I’m certainly not a woman just because I had the misfortune of being brought up in a certain way. And if I want to pay particular attention to my appearance or wear too many cosmetics or, god forbid, wear a  _ petticoat _ , then I damn well should be able to."

"Hear, hear!" Giovanni takes another drag of the pipe, "None of that means you're a woman, my boy--it just means you're vain."

Jonah replies in a salacious tone, "There's nothing wrong with vanity when one looks as good as I do."

"Narcissus," Giovanni shoots him a mischievous grin.

"Well… I'm not going to dispute it."

There’s a moment of silence as the playfulness dissipates from the conversation. When Giovanni next speaks, his tone is serious.

“...Our existence is far removed from any notion of godliness, Jonah. We do things most men find horribly repulsive and on a near daily basis. Whether something is moral or not bears very little weight in the grand scheme of things. I can guarantee that any righteous god would be far more concerned with your eating habits than with your gender presentation.”

Jonah says nothing in response to that. He only knows that Giovanni is right.

Giovanni continues with a certain degree of somberness, “...Ultimately, the life of a single man is nothing. Whether one is killed or kills others for the sake of his own power doesn’t matter. Whether one fucks women or men, whether one is a woman or man at all--that matters even less.”

How appropriate for the Vast, that nothing, including gender and sexuality, should really matter. The idea is oddly comforting, especially now, as Jonah is embraced by the quiet dank of the opium den. His eyelids flutter, heavy with intoxication. Jonah isn't going to admit that the conversation made him more comfortable around Giovanni. To him, perception is everything, and there is always a constant fear that others, even others of his orientation, view him as little more than a woman in drag. But Giovanni, it seems, understands his predicament on a, frankly, intimate level. It’s odd, feeling a sense of kinship with a person he  _ knows _ cares very little about the suffering of others. A person that is undoubtedly befriending him out of practicality than any real connection. That’s fine, though. Jonah is doing the same to Giovanni. Jonah far prefers to be in the company of someone he can understand.


End file.
